


By All Flowers

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris feels his own hand on his shoulder, and hears his own voice in his ear — a future self, stepping backward in time to say <i>Now, you fool, do not waste another night. Kiss her and do not stop.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	By All Flowers

It was not a lie when Fenris said he remembered Hawke’s touch as if it were yesterday, but it was not the whole truth. Try as he might, he could not find the words to explain how her touch seemed a living thing, bright and changing as a school of fish, always just out of reach, or how he would wake in the night, and remember her sleeping beside him, as careless of her safety as a newborn kitten. She carried her trust to him that night, whole and complete, and slept beside him without a single fear to cloud her dreams.

And he had shattered it.

They still have not talked about that night, in any substantial way. Perhaps, he thinks, watching her pause in the streets before his house to relace her boot, there is no need. Any harm has been forgiven, and the air between them is no longer fogged and laden with pain.

He even kissed her, once, marveling at how easily she rose when he took her hand, how she smiled as she closed her eyes. But there has been nothing since, though he has followed her on too many misadventures to count since then. And now she comes to his door, her arms filled with packages and her hair piled high on her head, humming and smiling, her skin dusted gold by the sunlight.

“I come bearing gifts,” she says, breezing past him when he holds the door open for her. “If they still count gifts when I plan on enjoying them as well, that is.”

“One could argue that they do, depending on the spirit in which they are given,” he replies, hesitating with his hand on the latch before driving the bolt home. “What have you brought tonight?”

Sly, delighted pride fills Hawke’s face the way wine fills a glass; Fenris finds himself smiling at the clean curve of her cheek as she hands a package to him. “Go ahead. Open it.” She fairly bounces on her heels as he pulls twine and paper free, and casts them to the side.

The wool is so heavy it nearly slips through his fingers; Fenris snatches at the edge to keep it from falling to the floor, and only realizes as the material bunches in his hands that he holds a cloak, full of cunningly hidden pockets, lined with thick velvet and embroidered in subtle patterns along the band.

“Hawke,” he begins, only for her to interrupt him as soon as he speaks.

“It’s set to be an awful winter,” she says, no longer bouncing but too still, her face as carefully blank as her voice. “And you needed a new cloak, the last I saw, and when I was in Lothering, I saw that Marcie was back, the old tailor, and — well. Now I’m rambling.” Her hands flutter, her mouth quirks, and a sharp pang strikes Fenris in the heart. She can hide  _nothing_ ; if she tries to keep silent, her hands and face will speak instead.

“You brought this back from Ferelden.” Fenris does not pose a question — he is too busy thinking of Hawke, alone on a ship, carrying this cloak back to him when so much between them was still uncertain — but Hawke nods as if it were.

“My parents always had Marcie make us new clothes as we grew — which was a lot, you know, three children growing up all at once, Maker, it must have cost a fortune — and I think she still has the finest stitches in all of Ferelden.” Hawke runs her fingers along a fold in the cloak, smiling faintly, her eyes a thousand leagues away. “Do you like it?”

It is forest green and black, with silver clasps shaped like oak leaves and acorns, and in his hands it feels alive, like a carpet of moss It is the finest gift he has ever been given. “Like it?” he says. “Hawke, I —” He breathes deep, the deep, wise smell of wool filling his nose. “Thank you,” he says, lifting his head to meet her eyes.

Hawke beams at him. The setting sun casts shadows in the hollow of her throat and in the shell of her ear, and Fenris feels his own hand on his shoulder, and hears his own voice in his ear — a future self, stepping backward in time to say  _Now, you fool, do not waste another night. Kiss her and do not stop._

 _Far be it from me to ignore my own advice_ , Fenris thinks, cupping Hawke’s cheek and feeling her surprised inhale against his mouth, in the moment before his lips find hers.

***

The rest of Hawke’s bounty is food, and food in such abundance that Fenris hardly believes they can eat it all: mushrooms in red wine, warm bread, three different cheeses, apples soaked in honey and cinnamon, cold beef and chicken, and butter so fresh his tongue aches when he smells it.

“Hawke,” he says, shaking his head as she spreads the food between them. “Is there a holiday I’ve missed? Are we celebrating something?”

“ _We_  are celebrating the spring, even if it doesn’t feel like it out there,” she says airily, waving a knife until he plucks it out of her hand and starts slicing the meat. “And  _I_ am celebrating food that isn’t consumed while walking, or made up of whatever I found in the snares that morning.” She shudders. “I am heartily  _sick_  of venison and rabbit, Fenris. Give me cold pork any day.”

Fenris pauses in his slicing. “Yet that seems to be the one thing we are missing. Should you go out and fetch some?”

“And let you eat this all without me? Nice try, Fenris, but I’m on to you and your schemes.”

“Yes,” he drawls, more at ease than he can remember, his pleasure in the foolish banter and the food and in Hawke too great to express — like a sun, it warms him, and dazzles him when he tries to look too closely. “My cunning plan is revealed. I will eat all the food, and not be able to leave my room for a fortnight.”

Hawke sighs, wrapping bread around beef and cheese. “I don’t think I’ll be able to leave either. Well, let’s make our best efforts, shall we?”

“We shall.” He cracks the neck of a bottle of wine, and offers her the first taste.

***

They take their time eating; Hawke relights the fire twice as they slowly stuff themselves, and when all that is left is a few crusts and a rind of cheese, Fenris drags himself to the cellar for another bottle of wine.

There are none left.

Fenris is so taken by surprise he stares at the empty racks for a long moment, not moving. Danarius’ cellars seemed so expansive when Fenris first claimed this house as his own; now they echo, full of spiderwebs and dust. The bottle upstairs — the one he and Hawke shared, laughing and letting their fingers brush and linger as they passed it back and forth — was the last.

Now there is nothing left of Danarius. Fenris has taken petty, malicious pleasure over the years in selling off the objects Danarius left behind — furniture, jewels, paintings — but he kept the wine, to use in the first acts of friendship he could remember. He had shared the first bottle with Hawke, before he shattered it against the wall. And now all that remains is the memory of fear, receding ever more swiftly into the past. It is done. This house is his, and all within it was chosen by his hand.

He is — free.

The word sinks into him, a stone into smooth water, and vanishes into his blood. He knows better than to think it will be finished so easily, or so quickly, but he is  _free,_ the last of his chains broken and washed away.

He takes a deep breath, the cool, stale air of the cellars raising gooseflesh on his arms, and stands still a moment longer. The only sound is his heartbeat, a faint drumming in his ears.

“Fenris?” calls Hawke. “Did you get lost in your own house?” Her voice comes from the top of the stairs, and when Fenris turns his head, he sees her silhouetted in the firelight, her head cocked to the side. “Is everything all right?”

He feels the hand on his shoulder again, urging him forward.  _Go,_  says his future self.  _If she is what you want, show her. Let this be your real beginning: this night, this woman, this life._

“Everything is well,” he says, his voice rough, the words spilling loose from his mouth like a knot finally coming undone. “We’ve finished the wine.”

“Oh, well done us,” Hawke says, holding out her hand to him as he begins to climb the stairs. “Shall we get more?”

The night outside will be kind, Fenris knows — a cool sea breeze, stars reflected on the waves, the smell of woodsmoke and spices drifting up from Lowtown. There will be music near the Chantry, and dancing at the Hanged Man. The city is his, just as this life is his, and he can put his hands to all of it, or none of it.

Or he can stay here, and finally answer the question that lies beyond his freedom: is he ready?

He is, he  _is_.

Hawke’s fingers thread through his. “We could try to walk off some of our gluttony,” she says, pulling him back through the foyer, her bare feet almost silent on the stone tiles. She has tied her skirt at her waist, and her legs are bare to the knees, shapely calves and crooked toes on display. “Or see what mischief Varric and Isabela are up to — always a fun show, there — or…”

He trails the fingers of his free hand down her neck, over her shoulder, hardly able to believe his daring, silently delighted when Hawke’s voice catches and then fades away. She curves into his touch, sighing, eyes closed. The smooth column of her throat vibrates as he strokes her skin, words caught unspoken within, but the only noise she makes is a low hum of pleasure.

“Or,” he says, stepping close and letting go of her hand to wind both arms around her waist, “we could stay here.” His mouth follows his fingers, his tongue flickering out to taste the milk and salt on her skin, and he smirks into the curve of her shoulder as she gasps.

“We could do that,” she says, her voice tight. “But —  _ah!_ ” She goes boneless against him, a warm, pliant weight, as he finds the little warm valley behind her ear, and sets his mouth to it. “ _Fenris_.”

His name sends heat arcing through him, and suddenly his clothes are too great a boundary between them, and hers are intolerable. He wants them  _gone_ , and Hawke’s skin pressed to his, inch to inch.

 _Slowly_ , says his future self, wryly, patiently amused.  _There is no need to_ rush _, only to treasure._

It is one thing to know this, but quite another to hear Hawke gasping and feel her pushing closer and  _taste_  her, and not lose himself in her without another thought. Fenris pulls away — all too aware of Hawke’s soft, moaning protest — long enough to turn her around, and the sight of her flushed cheeks and glittering eyes silences anything he might try to say.

“You —” she says, still breathing hard, throwing her arms around him and kissing him between words. “Oh, Fenris — you are — you’ll drive me mad if you keep going like this.”

“Then in that we will be evenly matched,” he says, when she turns her attention to his vest, nimble fingers plucking at his buttons.

Her laughter bubbles up between them, heady as wine, sweet as honey. Fenris captures her fingers in his, and pulls her toward the stairs. He means to get them back to his room, where he can lie her down on his bed and watch the firelight play on her bare skin, but she keeps pausing, tugging him back to kiss him breathless, her hands moving restlessly in his hair.

Finally, dizzy from her kisses, Fenris lifts her by the hips — she is such a small woman, and fits so easily against him — and carries her up the stairs, her legs wrapped around his waist and with her hiding her giggles in the crook of his shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” she says, as he eases her down on his bed. Her hair has tumbled out of its knot to frame her face in soft, flyaway waves. Her eyes move over him hungrily, but with such sweet, unalloyed delight that all Fenris feels is the terrible, unending weight of his love for her. Terrible, because he has never wanted anything so much, or been so afraid of loss, as he is in this moment — but why should he lose her? Six years have brought him freedom, and a measure of peace; no doubt Hawke will do her best to ruin the latter, every chance she gets, but she helped bring him to the former, and if he does not want to lose her, he will not.

This, of all things, will be simple.

“You are,” he says, slowly undoing the laces of her bodice. Hawke breathes out slowly, her hands curled lightly on the pillows by her head, and watches him. “You are the maddest woman I have ever met, and the most beautiful, and you —” He pauses, his throat closing. “And I will not leave you,” he promises. “I will not.”

Hawke smiles, dazzling, and pulls him down to her.

***

This is not the first night again. They are wiser now, Fenris realizes. They have come to understand loss; they have learned they can survive without each other. But survival is all it could be, for him at least, if they did not choose this.

Now they are careful with each other, each touch not simply an act of love, but a promise: to cherish, to protect, to revel in this moments and all that follow.

***

The rest of the night, Fenris only remembers in pieces: Hawke stretching out naked on her side as he pulled his trousers over his hips; her hand stroking him slowly until he cried out her name; the rosy points of her nipples; the noises she made while he lay between her thighs, grinding himself against the ragged sheets as he teased her pleasure out with tongue and fingers.

It is not a conscious forgetting, but it does not frighten him. They will make a lifetime of these nights, and he can forget them by the hundreds. There will always be more. There will always be Hawke, limned by the dying firelight, her fingers on his chest as they move in rhythm, as close as two bodies can become.

***

Fenris wakes at the dawn, weighted to the bed by Hawke’s body. She has spread herself over him, as lazy and self-satisfied as a cat: an arm over his chest, her leg over both of his, her hair fanned in a dark swathe on the pillows and his shoulder.

“Go back to sleep,” she grumbles when he stirs. “It’s too early, Fenris, please, just a few more hours.”

He strokes her hair, smiling into the half-light without opening his eyes. “Does Kirkwall know its Champion would rather laze in bed all day than protects its citizens?”

Hawke makes an indeterminate noise that bears more than a passing resemblance to a curse Fenris has heard down on the docks. “Kirkwall can look to itself for a while, unless there’s an impending invasion I need to deal with.” She sighs, and rolls onto her back.

Fenris opens one eye to peer at her; she is sleep-rumpled and pouting, the blankets barely covering her breasts. _While we are awake_ , he thinks, but chooses to nuzzle his face into her neck instead of finishing the thought.

“Oh!” Hawke scrambles to climb over him, wrapping the warmest blanket around her as she moves. “I almost forgot! Your other present.”

“Another present?” He sits up, propped up on his elbows, and watches her rummage through the last of her packages. “You’ll spoil me.”

Hawke turns a brilliant, wide-awake smile on him. “That  _is_  the general idea, love.” The word rolls off her tongue so easily Fenris barely hears it; when he finally understands what she has said, Hawke is already kneeling at the edge of the bed, something dark and gleaming cupped in her hands.

“They’re the first ones of the season,” she says. “Lady Elegant’s husband has a hothouse, and she was generous enough to share. I’m sure they’re almost too sour to eat, but I know you love them.”

Blackberries. That is what fills Hawke’s hands, a shining pile of fruit, its sharp scent rising to greet him. She is right, he loves them, would eat them by the sackful if someone let him — but sour or not, these will be the best blackberries he has ever tasted.

The sun rises as they eat, savoring the wild, tart juices, and Hawke licks his fingers clean when the last of the berries are gone.

After that, it is a long time before they leave his bed.

***

Hawke stretches, groaning as her spine cracks. “We really should go for a walk,” she murmurs, “if only so we have an excuse to come back to bed as soon as possible.”

Fenris pillows his head on her belly, and turns a page in his book. “I am quite content where I am,” he says, and it is true, he is  _content_ , his body replete and warm, his mind at ease. “But if you insist…”

She snorts, her fingers teasing out the knots in his hair. “Well, don’t make me beg, Fenris. It was only a suggestion.” The drowsy slope of her voices turns thoughtful. “The markets will still be open, and — shocking as it is, we somehow managed to eat everything. We could get something light for dinner, stop by the Hanged Man…”

The unspoken question beyond her words makes Fenris pause, and look up from his book. Hawke watches him, unblinking, but he feels the tension in her body, the quiet unease. She is giving him one last chance to change his mind, to tell her last night was singular — and if he does, she will leave, and never speak of this again.

He sits up, stretching himself, and sets his book aside. “Or, we could have dinner at the Hanged Man,” he says, “then I can watch you lose Wicked Grace all evening.”

Hawke’s eyes blow wide, and a laugh explodes out of her. “Oh, that is  _it_ ,” she says, trying to sit up and untangle herself from his blankets at the same time, and failing at both. “I’ll empty your pockets if it’s the last thing I do.” She begins to say something else, still laughing, but a yawn breaks through her words, and she falls back to his pillows. “Or we could just stay here,” she says. “I could do with a little more sleep.”

Yes; they should stay here as long as they can, hidden from the world, to learn each other again. “If that is what you wish,” he says, to Hawke’s sleepy smile.

The day has begun to cool; summer is more than a month away and cool breezes wash in from the sea to fog his windows and chill the tiles beneath his bare feet. Even with all his doors and windows closed, even with the fire crackling sweetly behind him, Hawke shivers, drawing the blankets up to her shoulders.

Fenris pauses only a moment — no need to listen for his future self, now — before he scoops his cloak from its place on the table, then spreads it over himself and Hawke as he climbs into bed beside her. No doubt this is not the purpose for which she had it made, but he can think of nothing better. The day is cool, but his bed is warm, and so is Hawke. He dozes slowly, lulled by Hawke’s own light breathing, and the scent of the wool around them.

The last thing he thinks of as he falls asleep is Hawke walking the hills of Ferelden, her steps pointed toward Kirkwall, toward him, the cloak in her hands, and her face turned up toward the sun.  

 _When we wake,_ he thinks, pressing a last kiss to her head,  _I will ask her to sing._

 


End file.
